


Private Evenings 2: Evening Harder

by WendyNerd



Series: Private Evenings [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Awkwardness, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Oral Sex, Sansa is a neurotic weirdo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:24:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6198556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By Popular demand, the unbeta'd followup to Private Evenings</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Evenings 2: Evening Harder

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, but I still granted your wishes.

Sansa paced about her solar, trying to keep herself functional. But perhaps I am already long gone, she thought. Every stride she made was a reminder of that. Normally her private parts and thighs were encased in a pair of white linen small clothes beneath her skirts. Not now though. The fabric she donned beneath her skirts ended with the fastenings of her stockings on her upper thigh. It was a wicked feeling, a wicked knowledge.

Perhaps she should put them back on. It seemed practical when she retired to her chambers to await her betrothed. It would give him one less barrier to fiddle with. There were, after all, no allusions about what this night would bring. She’d told him, point blank, when he made his offer: “Come back tomorrow night. Then we can…”

It seemed like the right decision at the time. She was so worked up that she felt she’d have no control of herself, that she might accidentally allow things to go too far. A period to cool down was needed before they experimented any further, surely, so she could better think things through.

As a result, she’d spent the night and the day in distraction. When she’d retired to bed, she shocked herself by exploring some of the things Jon mentioned during their discussion. She’d found, when she’d removed her gown and changed into her nightrail, that she needed to change her body linen. That the most intimate part of them were wet, just as Jon mentioned.

So, sitting on the edge of her bed, Sansa had lifted her linen skirt and touched herself tentatively. When she’d parted the lower lips, she’d found her bud—- a part of her body she’d always been aware of, but didn’t allow herself to pay too much attention to for propriety’s sake— and touched it with her finger. A shock went through her, a shock coupled with relief from the aching, hot pressure she still felt from her visit with Jon. A relief that was momentary. A shock she needed.

The touches continued, and she’d found herself, ministering to that protrusion of flesh, pinching it, working it, stroking it all while she imagined her betrothed sweating as he left the fighting yard, practice armor off and his tunic sticking to his skin from sweat. She imagined his lips on hers. She imagined peeling the sweat-soaked linen of his tunic off of his stomach and running her hands along those muscles. She imagined another hand in his hair. His grey eyes peering deep into hers. She dreamed and dreamed until something seemed to erupt within her and she fell back onto the bed, gasping and spasming.

She did it again a few minutes later, consumed with wonder at what she and her body were doing. She thought of a tongue where her fingers were. How it would feel.

Last night she slept, but not necessarily in a peaceful manner. Her dreams were sweaty and warm and confusing, but ultimately lovely, even if she couldn’t recall them too clearly.

Throughout that day, focusing on the work at hand seemed near impossible. Her thoughts were still in the bedchamber. The only consolation was that it seemed that her betrothed was equally distracted.

They’d exchanged more than a few pained, yearning looks throughout the day, including one at the end of supper when she’d risen from the bench. He gave her the slightest of nods. He’d be coming.

But he was taking his time. Enough time for Sansa to remove her smallclothes, go at her parts and thighs with a wet, soapy rag (she would not be able to bear any uncleanliness), redress her hair, build a fire, select cushions to pace on the ground before her chair so that his knees wouldn’t ache (she’d determined that this experiment would not take place in the bedchamber. They were flirting with temptation enough), have a cup of wine, and agonize over all of this.

Perhaps she would scare him off, being bare-bottomed. Perhaps it would seem too eager. Whorish. Doing this at all was already a great risk.

Then there was the matter of his… needs… She knew of some of the things she could do aside from actual coupling. She wasn’t ignorant of how a man’s staff worked or was serviced. Her own parts proved a revelation, but her time with Littlefinger had been all the revelations a woman could gag over. She’d managed to escape using her mouth as he’d urged her, but more than once she’d found herself with her hand wrapped around his shaft.

She both did and didn’t want to do that for Jon. On one hand, he deserved as much relief as she did. On the other, she did not want their first intimate contact to remind her of what she’d done with Baelish.

Perhaps it was time to use her mouth. The prospect frightened her, but there was some odd satisfaction she felt at the idea of giving Jon what she’d always managed to deny Littlefinger.

Still… it was filthy, was it not? A whore’s trick?

And what you’re already planning isn’t filthy already?

She took a deep breath and tried to make a decision. She’d perhaps offer, but if she did, she’d insist that he wash himself first, as she’d done for him. It was fairer that way.

But a combination of no smallclothes and a potential offer of servicing with her mouth… Surely that was too much for one night. Sansa sighed and made for her bedchamber door, resolved to retrieve her body linen.

Unfortunately, that was when Jon finally chose to knock and announce himself. Sansa froze. “Um, one moment!”

She bolted through to her bedchamber, unceremoniously threw open the chest of underthings she kept at the foot of her bed, and scrambled into the first pair she could grab. It was unlike her, as she was normally so precise in all she did, but if she kept him waiting, he might think she was having second thoughts. She fastened them as fast as she could, smoothed down her skirts, checked herself in her dressing table mirror, and went to the door to the hall, hoping to look more elegant than she felt.

Jon looked flustered, flushed, as if he’d been running. And before he even spoke, he held something up to her. Blue petals bursting from a stiff stem, marked by light green patches where thorns had clearly been taken off.  The perfume of it danced lightly up to her nostrils, and Sansa found herself blushing as she took it in hand, burying her nose in it to inhale its perfume more deeply.

“It’s lovely, thank you,” she said after a few seconds, gazing up at him shyly.

Jon stood in the doorway, his stance awkward but his eyes eager. She could not help but notice how once again, his hair was slicked back, and he was wearing one of his better doublets. And she felt touched.

She herself had opted to change into a gown with lighter skirts than the one she wore at dinner. Heavy plum wool was traded in for a becoming ice-blue silk she’d not gotten to wear in over a year.

“You’re welcome. “ They stood there for a second, then Sansa remembered what was happening and moved aside. “Please, come in. Sit down.”

He shuffled in, and Sansa noticed how his eyes fell on the cushions on the floor. His lip twitched, and she felt a right idiot. He knew her. If there were cushions on the ground, they were there deliberately.

“Would you like something to drink?” She asked weakly, indicating the flagon and cups placed on the table between their usual chairs. “…And please, sit.”

He nodded and took his seat, pouring himself a cup of ale. He looked at the mber liquid in his cup with surprise, then glanced at her. “Not Arbor gold?”

“You prefer ale.” She wanted to make sure he had something he liked to drink in case she proved… distasteful.  
He smiled softly and took a sip. “You’re sweet.”

An awkward pause occurred as Sansa herself sat. Silence between them was usually comfortable. But not tonight. So she broke it.

“If you’re having second thoughts, My Prince, I understand.”

“I’m not, are you?”

“No! But…”

“I’m just not sure how to approach this, to be honest,” he said, blushing. “With you. Last night, it was in the heat of the moment, but—“

“—I’m sorry!”

He shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I understand. Perhaps if we just spoke openly about this?”

“About what we’re going to do?”

He nodded. “It worked last night.”

She reddened. “I don’t know what to say. I, um, I am looking forward to it!”

Another awkward pause. Finally, Jon took a deep breath, then looked her straight in the eyes, smiling. “Did you imagine it? Think on it after I left?”

She nodded, embarrassed but a little thrilled. “I… I did.”

His boldness invigorated her, and she decided to match his energy.

“Did you?”

“All night, and throughout the day. I’ve been able to think of nothing else, My Lady.”

“Me neither! And last night I—“ But she stopped there.

“—You what?” His eyes glinted, causing a fire to ignite in her lower belly, “Did you touch yourself, Sweetling? I did.”

Her mouth fell open. “Yes.” Her voice was a squeak. Jon inhaled sharply and closed his eyes for a second.

“What did you think about as you did?” He set his cup aside, then got out of his chair. He walked closer to her, eyes burning. Sansa stared up at him, feeling like she was being hunted. But she liked it. He came closer. “Did you think about me doing this?”

He sunk to his knees, falling upon the cushions she’d placed for his comfort. “You must have, if you thought to have these waiting for me. And what about this?”

His hands fell to the silk hem of her skirts and raised them up.

It was like he was a different person. Not the sweet, shy, soft-spoken man who normally sat by the fire with her. No, this was the man who had faced down an army of Others, who had ridden a dragon and loved a wildling woman. The man she saw in the practice yards, fearlessly swinging his dulled blade to take down a sparring partner. The man who would peel off his practice armor to reveal a tunic sticking to his skin…

“Take off your doublet.” She gasped, the feeling of the fabric running up her legs giving her shivers. Jon leaned back in surprise, dropping her skirts. But he smiled and began to unlace the crimson lamb’s wool.

“My tunic as well, My Lady?”

“Are you sweating?” She asked weakly, gazing at the white linen.

“What?”

“Nevermind, Yes.” She wanted to see his broad shoulders and chest gleam in the firelight. She got that wish. Jon grinned up at her once he was bare-chested and slowly drew her skirts up again. He pushed them beyond her knees and up her thighs, bunching them up. Then quick as a shot, his hands went to her knees, pulling them apart.

“Your smallclothes, My Lady.” He gasped. “If I may.”

She nodded weakly. But her haze was interrupted when it was clear Jon was struggling with the laces. Sansa cursed herself. In her haste, she’d tied the knots too tight.

“Just tear them off, I can fix them later,” she heard herself say.

Before a moment of shame could occur, Jon looked up at her, heated and worshipful. His hand snaked up between her legs, below the bunched up skirts, and curled up around the waistband.

There was a sharp ripping sound, and Sansa yelped. The skirts blocked some of her view, but she knew what lay beyond them. Her womanhood, bear and exposed before her betrothed’s hungry eyes. She could see his eyes.

He growled and his head dipped. Not to her part themselves, but to the inside of her right thigh. She felt herself melt as he peppered both thighs with soft kisses. His fingers danced upwards from her knees, finding the fastenings of her stockings and pulling them free, then rolling the fabric down to her calves. His head went lower, disappearing behind the mountain of blue silk bunched about her hips. An instant later, his tongue was at her left knee and running up… up… up…

And then down at her right knee. She hissed.

He was merciful, though. And once a stripe of saliva had been left along her thigh, his mouth found her mound. He planted an oddly chaste kiss to the auburn curls that decorated her sex before stroking and parting her leaking folds.

Sansa found herself sinking in her chair, pushing her hips forward. She needed the contact now. Every fiber of her being demanded it. Her desperate fist found his dark brown curls and yanked him deeper into her.

And ah, it was all she’d hoped for. His tongue was wet, forceful, a little rough, but deliciously precise. His lips were soft and full. And he at once took to that nub of flesh that she’d explored the prior evening. It was clear he’d done this before, and well.

There were moans, and it took her a moment to realize they were hers. The room disappeared. The world disappeared. She felt her pulse everywhere. She felt the pressure, the mounting, twisting heat.

There would never be enough of this, she was sure. She doubted she’d ever bear letting him out of her sight or out between her legs again.

And the damn broke, a more forceful eruption than her fingers had supplied her the night before. A sweet agony.

Her whole body was a heartbeat. She hummed. She felt Jon lap at her juices. For a couple of seconds, his tongue found her entrance. She was only vaguely aware of anything. The world seemed still and peaceful.

She wasn’t aware how much time had passed before she’d opened her eyes. But they found him at once, and looked upon his rising head adoringly. Jon appeared over the mound of skirts, sweetly placing his chin atop the silk and gazing up at her. “And how was that, My Lady?”

“Lovely, My Prince. I hope you enjoyed yourself.”

“You taste like warm honeyed milk and tart ale. You’re a banquet, My Lady, the finest banquet in the Seven Realms.”

“Oh?” She asked, coming to a bit more. Enough to tease him. “And how do you know that? Have you feasted at every woman in the Seven Realms?”

He blushed slightly. “I don’t need to.”

She reached down and stroked his cheek and hair. His beard was damp, she noticed. Damp with her. She wanted to soak every inch of him with her.

“Thank you, My Lord,” she said breathlessly. “It was sublime.”

He grinned. “And, as promised, My Lady, your maidenhead remains intact. I felt it. Brushed it with my tongue.”

Her eyes widened. “Gods.”

She felt shy then, and glanced away for a moment. Her maidenhead was intact, yet she felt so thoroughly debauched. She looked back at Jon. “Stand and help me up.”

He did so, lifting her gently, and she kissed him deep, tasting herself. His description was surprisingly accurate. She moaned and leaned into him, swollen with love. When their lips parted, she smiled and snaked a hand down between them.

“Now, what of you, My Prince?” His yearning had to be unbearable at this point.

He hissed and swallowed when Sansa’s hand gripped him through his breeches. She was surprised to find him only partially stiff.

“I can… see to them myself, My Lady. There is no need—“

She pulled back at this, stung. “You don’t… You don’t want me…”

He gave a pained laugh. “Gods, do I. But I wouldn’t want you to debase yourself. I… I prepared myself for this before I came here. Exhausted my own needs so they might not interrupt or confuse our encounter.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean before you came here, you—?”

He nodded.

It was sweet, in its way. Very sweet. And it gave her courage.

“Well,” she said tartly, reaching for him again, “It seems you are not completely exhausted, My Lord.” She could feel his cock rising and swelling in her hand. “You got to practice your duties tonight. I think it’s only right I should be allowed the same opportunity. —Provided, of course, that you’re willing to wash up a bit first.”

Jon squirmed. “What do you mean?”

She smiled and leaned in, whispering in his ear. “There’s a wash basin, cloth, and soap in my bed chamber. Freshen up and bit and come back here.”

He took off like a shot, and was back almost as quickly, his breeches undone and splashed with water. His voice was practically strangled as he asked, “Are… Are you sure?”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed onto his manhood, which was only partially exposed. “Let me see you, Jon.”

He pulled his breeches and smallclothes down, standing naked before her. Is cock stood out amidst coarse dark hair. Sansa swallowed. It was bigger than she’d expected. Thicker. Thicker than Petyr’s. Her confidence in her ability to engulf such a thing in her mouth deteriorated. As quickly as she could, she tried to adjust.

She grabbed some of the cushions and placed them on the floor before the fire, sat upon one, and patted the ones next to her. “Sit.”

He did so, slowly, shyly. “If you don’t want to… You needn’t—“

“—Let me try,” she said, reaching down. Her hand wrapped around the base of it softly. Jon gasped and she smiled. It was hot, hard, smooth in her hand. Her thumb ran along a large vein at the shaft.

“Gods!” He cried. Sansa grinned at how he’d already shut his eyes, and began pumping him back and forth. Oddly enough, doing this, she didn’t think of Petyr. She just watched Jon as he twitched and moaned. The reaction was startling. He was at her mercy.

And she wanted to have him more at her mercy. Perhaps, if she just took the tip— She bent down, her face growing closer. Jon’s yelp when he felt her hot breath upon the tip sealed the deal for her. She opened her mouth and wrapped her lips about his hood.

“SANSA!”

It didn’t taste too bad. Fleshy, warm, a bit salty. She didn’t take more of him in, however. She just sucked at the end as she pumped her hand up and down. She swirled her tongue about the head. Something salty greeted it.

She found she liked exploring him this way, feeling every pulse, every inch. Mischief seizing her, another hand came down and she found them. Two fleshy pieces just below the base of his manhood. She touched them, then gave them the gentlest squeeze.

“FUCK!” A hand gripped her hair. “Sansa, I’m—“

She lifted her head, is manhood popping out of her mouth, and just in time. White threads of seed spurted out. One landed on the tip of her chin, then rest on her hand and on his belly and chest. He fell back, moaning.

A little embarrassed, Sansa took her unsoiled hand and found a handkerchief within her skirts, quickly wiping his seed from her chin and fist, then moving to clean it off his torso. He breathed heavily, chest and belly rising and falling. His eyes were shut. And Sansa admired this, her handiwork. Her prince, her hero, her lord husband to be, was a puddle before her.

Sansa found herself crawling atop him once he was clean, straddling him and leaning forward, down. Her lips seized his. It brought him back a bit. He moaned and lifted his arms to wrap around her. She sunk down and let herself rest against him, her head buried in his neck. He stroked her hair, she stroked his chest, her fingertips circling and winding around some of the coarse hair that decorated his chest.

After a while, she spoke. “I liked doing that to you. I like what it does to you.”

He snorted. “I have a feeling that our married years may render me utterly unmanned. That’s just the beginning, I think. You’re an unbelievable creature, Sansa Stark.”

“So are you, Jon Targaryen. I can’t believe a man as fine and good as you exists.”

He looked over at her. “I think I exist for you, Sweetling. I love you.”

She pressed a light kiss to his lips. “I love you as well, Jon. And if this is our chaste night, I truly cannot wait for the wedding.”

Jon grinned. “May I sleep here tonight, My Lady?”

Sadly, she shook her head. “If I let you into my bed, I may not be able to let you out again. But we may lie here for a while longer, if you wish.”

He sighed and looked up at the ceiling again. “I wish it very much.”


End file.
